


OSS #8 Fake Dating/Married AU

by somewhereelse



Series: bee-eye-en-gee-oh [8]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Olicity Summer Sizzle, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19789468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Season 2.5 Canon Divergence. Felicity always thought she’d end up “dating” Oliver at some point during the course of their nighttime activities. No, not likethat. She never thought it would involve weeks to months of faking domestic bliss.





	OSS #8 Fake Dating/Married AU

**Author's Note:**

> So much for being on a roll. My brain decided to fixate on the USWNT victory coverage (and also engage in RP shipping, which like: WTF, no, get some boundaries). Anyway, not particularly pleased with this one (and it may be revisited like Friends to Lovers), but it’ll do for getting back in the writing groove.

Oliver pauses on his way up the stairs. 

“I’m going to stop by the store for eggs. Do you need anything?” 

Barely paying him any attention from her computers, Felicity shakes her head in the negative so he turns to leave again before remembering something else.

“Hey, don’t forget to move your ring over before you come home.”

Just when he’s reached the door, Diggle makes a very confused sound of disbelief. “Are you two pretending to be engaged because Felicity’s weird landlord won’t let you stay with her if you’re not?”

“No,” Felicity immediately denies but she’s never exactly been good at lying so Dig raises one of those truth-eliciting eyebrows.

“Maybe,” Oliver concedes because he’s figured there’s only so long they can hide it from him, what with all of them figuratively living on top of each other in the bunker.

Dig sighs, a not-so-silent prayer for strength. “There’s this thing called tenant’s rights, you know? Pretty sure you’re allowed two people in a two-bedroom unit.”

“There’s this thing called “I like my townhouse and rent control, and it takes far too much effort to find a new place to live than pretend to be dating that dude every once in awhile to appease my “traditional” landlord.” Besides, it’s only temporary,” she retorts without looking up from her screen. “Oh good thing, you waited. I think we’re out of toilet paper.”

After an eye roll and a shrug, Diggle drops it, and Oliver finally escapes out the door.

* * *

Felicity always figured the trope would come around. After signing on as permanent tech support to Oliver’s ruse, pretending to be his date as cover for recon during a fancy party or something seemed inevitable. She never thought _this_ would be how the plot would play out.

Maybe she could have dealt with getting dressed up and letting Oliver squire her around on his arm like his previous dates. Maybe if she had on an expensive gown and airbrushed makeup and perfect hair, it would just feel like a role. She could pretend for a few hours then at the end of the night, she would strip away the veneer and become Felicity Smoak, IT girl, once more. 

But there’s no pretending here.

Home used to be her safe haven, the one place where she could let loose and relax. When she invited Oliver to stay until he sorted out his trust and living situation, she forgot to take that into consideration. Instead, she’s faced with perfect domesticity of a partner who’s attentive and considerate. All because her frakking landlord is “old-fashioned” and happened upon Oliver letting himself into the house with her spare—now _his_ —key.

Felicity doesn’t blame Oliver for sidestepping into a(n un)believable excuse when his charm failed on the suspicious landlord. Her landlady was the traditional sort and lived through enough bullshit to see Oliver’s for what it was and call him on it. Her blunt nature is actually why Felicity likes the crotchety woman.

When she signed it, her lease specified no overnight (male) guests without approval, and Felicity hadn’t given it a second thought. At the time, she was still reeling from Cooper and intent on flying under the radar at QC. The possibility of a new boyfriend—or even more unimaginable, a one night stand—made bile rise in her throat. Who cared if her landlady didn’t believe in sexual intercourse, never mind co-habituation, before marriage? The lease was only supposed to be for a year, but then she got comfortable, and the Hood recruited her to his cause, and moving seemed like such unnecessary torture. 

And any attempt at pretending to be related would be futile since Felicity, in an attempt to commiserate with the lonely woman, often lamented about her lack of extended family. She knew there was no brother or male cousin or random stranger to crawl out of the woodwork. Honestly, Felicity never thought this particular series of events would come back to bite her in the ass like this.

So, yeah, Oliver stuttered through the implication that he put a ring on it, and her landlady couldn’t have been more pleased. Well, she would have been more pleased if they were actually married, but apparently engaged is good enough to circumvent her little rule. She ushered him into the house and rushed to her landline to call and congratulate Felicity at the same time Oliver was panic-texting her a warning.

That leaves her here. Affianced to Oliver Queen in only the eyes of her landlord—and now Diggle—without any of the appurtenant benefits. Well, aside from healthy breakfasts and packed lunches and delicious dinners, along with a housekeeping schedule that actually got followed. But none of that stacks up against the continuous strain of never being able to let her guard down.

Oliver’s just always _there_ , solicitous and kind in a way that’s almost irreconcilable with his vigilante persona. Then again, he has literally nowhere else to go except for the Arrow Cave, and she and Diggle have worked too hard to keep him in the light for her to kick him back down there. So she grits her teeth and suffers through the most thoughtful, yet omnipresent, roommate/fake fiancé ever.

Isn’t life just the best?

* * *

Oliver has no idea what possessed him to say it. 

Felicity warned him about the landlady, who looked after her like a mildly disapproving aunt, and her lease clause about unapproved overnight guests. He should have prepared an excuse, but he wasn’t expecting to run into her the very first day Felicity gave him a key. So when she peered at him over her spectacles, while wielding a shotgun and asking if he was there to burglarize the place, he sort of panicked.

His charming smile reserved for women of advanced age only made her hitch the gun higher so he conceded. Oliver held his hands up and pointed out the key that obviously spoke of Felicity’s permission for him to enter her house. That just made her more suspicious because Felicity knew perfectly well she wasn’t allowed gentlemen, or lady, callers without approval. And Oliver’s large duffel bag indicated he would be there for some time.

“I’m not just any, uh, guest,” Oliver hinted, hoping she might realize his quasi-famous identity and let him slide. He wasn’t sure why since none of his former tactics worked on, literally and figuratively, disarming her. 

“Felicity and I have a special relationship,” he tried again, being sincere this time. Special was really understating how much he values everything about her.

The gun lowered an inch, and she harrumphed. “You’re too handsome, and I can tell you know it. I won’t have you pulling one over on that girl. The only special relationship I’m concerned with involves bended knee and an altar. Or a chuppah in her case.”

“Right, yes, that,” Oliver agreed quickly, latching onto the lifeline. 

Belatedly, his eyes widened as he realized exactly what implication he just confirmed. Oh, Felicity was not going to like this. Especially not when a broad smile stretched across the woman’s face, and the gun fell limply to her side.

Practically vibrating with excitement, the woman lamented, “That girl never tells me anything.”

Oliver gulped. “It’s all very new,” he attempted to calm her. New as in the news was _seconds_ old. He could have slapped himself.

When the landlady hurried home across the street to call Felicity, he immediately pulled out his phone. There wasn’t any easy way to slip this into their existing text chain about tracking down a drug dealer. Ripping off the band-aid would have to work.

_Don’t get mad but your landlady thinks we’re engaged..._

_**OLIVER** _

* * *

“Honey, I’m home!” Felicity calls out semi-jokingly.

It’s for both Oliver’s, and her landlady’s, benefit that she announces her return every time. Felicity is fastidious about never wanting to startle him. Given that he’s the one imposing on her—taking over her house, forcing her into a farce of a relationship—it’s ridiculously considerate, so he tries to do the same in kind. 

Oliver is lounging on her couch, arms stretched over the back while SportsCenter plays in the background. Up until three weeks ago, he didn’t even know he _could_ still lounge, but that’s the effect of being around Felicity. He’s relaxing back into being human bit by bit.

His heart beats a little faster at the sight of her ponytail being tugged out. That Felicity can relax, literally let her hair down, here, with him. It’s kind of awe-inspiring.

Every since he dropped that bombshell on her to fool Slade, he’s regretted it. Not because it was untrue—Oliver gets the feeling he was telling more of the truth than he’s comfortable admitting—but because it’s played on both their emotions. The idea of loving Felicity causes another crack in his heart, except this crack is different. It’s not one that’s tearing him apart from the inside, but instead it’s _letting in_ Felicity. Felicity and and all her ridiculous light and belief that are filling up all those existing cracks, patching him up a little at a time. It’s a hell of a burden to put on someone, and he’s not willing to do that to her.

That bit of logic’s not going to stop his brain from hoarding this slice of domesticity they’ve carved out over the last few weeks and pretending that it could be real.

“Hey,” he greets, “I opened a bottle. There’s a glass on the counter for you.”

Felicity gasps in delight and heads straight for the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding the bottle in one hand, studying the label, and an generously full glass in the other. Oddly, the wine collection was among the personal property not leveraged by the insurance companies and creditors so he’s brought it all here in lieu of rent.

And to make her happy.

Oliver might be slow on the intake at times but he’s starting to realize that he would do a lot in life to see Felicity Smoak happy.

When she drops next to him on the couch, her shoes are missing so she tucks her feet up under herself. Oliver’s heard her disgruntled muttering about rage-killing high heels enough times in the year she served as his executive assistant so he pats his knee and waits. Felicity does nothing but shoot him a confused look.

“Massage?” he offers, one hand making the accompanying grabby motion.

* * *

Felicity goggles at him while her grip on her wine tightens. Is the frakking Arrow offering her a foot massage? Did his hand really just do the little gimme thing? How exactly is she supposed to react?

“Are you serious?” 

Her face twists up with incredulity. Unthinkingly, she curls her knees up a little closer. Yeah, like Oliver’s going to accost her feet if she declines. She rolls her eyes a little at herself.

Oliver shrugs, and behind the mask of nonchalance, she can tell she’s made him self-conscious. “I mean, you always say your feet hurt after heels all day...”

“If you don’t mind,” Felicity hedges, wondering if she’ll ever recover from this absurd level of domesticity. 

She inches her foot out, and Oliver rolls his eyes. He grabs her big toe and gently pulls until her leg’s stretched across the cushion, foot squarely over his lap. Once he begins the actual massage, Felicity’s sunk.

Her head tips back to hang over the armrest, and she all but melts into the fabric of her couch. Her free leg curls in a little tighter as she tries to reign herself in, but it’s no use. A deep sigh of relief escapes her. Instead of being weirded out, Oliver presses again in the spot, and she bites back a whimper.

“What I wouldn’t give for this to be every night,” she groans, eyes slipping shut and thoughts evaporating.

And, yes, she’s mainly talking about the foot massage but she’s also talking about a relaxed Oliver and a routine that involves taking care of each other and a sense of contentment.

Felicity hears Oliver’s little hum of agreement but she misses the way his eyes turn calculating as he tries to devise a plan for a future where this _is_ their every night.

* * *

Oliver’s never been much of a planner but he’s never had the right motivation before. It isn’t too long before their lie becomes a truth, and he walks across the street to hand-deliver a wedding invitation, momentarily having a shotgun aimed at him through the inched-open door for his trouble. Worth it.


End file.
